


kosher for passover

by That_Ghost_Kristoff, TheElusiveBadger



Series: feeling festive in new york, new york [1]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, F/M, Gen, Jewish Bucky Barnes, Jewish Holidays, Jewish Steve Rogers, M/M, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Pesach | Passover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-18 08:01:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14208735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/That_Ghost_Kristoff/pseuds/That_Ghost_Kristoff, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheElusiveBadger/pseuds/TheElusiveBadger
Summary: A family get together is awkward on the best of occasions; a seventy-two year gap, a team of superheroes, and amnesia only makes it worse.Or, Bucky Barnes reconnects with his younger sister in a kosher deli in Queens, gets dragged to the holidays, and still avoids the horseradish.





	kosher for passover

“Hello, welcome to Ben’s at Bayside,” says the kid behind the tall, formica counter, some high schooler with a bowl cut and his magnetic name tag flipped upside-down. “What can we get you today?”

Steve smiles widely at a harangued looking Sam. “You have to try the horseradish mustard,” he insists. “It’s the best I’ve ever had.” 

Bucky shakes his head. Sam gulps, then sideyes the huge menu above the counter. “Can’t I just get the--rug--how do I say that?” 

He asks the kid behind the counter. Bucky tries not to feel slighted. He knows Sam’s doing it on purpose, just like he knows Sam didn’t appreciate his evening piano rendition of Chopin three nights ago, despite saying five weeks ago that Chopin is his favorite composer. 

“Rugelach,” Natasha says from beside him, and doesn’t look away from her phone. 

Before Bucky can suggest matzah ball soup as an actual diner instead, the bowl cut kid behind the counter clears his throat, loudly, and says, “Mr. Captain America Sir, it’s a deep honor that you’ve come to Ben’s and all, but we stopped stocking the horseradish mustard in January.”

Bucky both smirks, and adjusts his baseball cap. Behind him, Tony mutters, “I’m here, too,” while Wanda whispers, “Thank God.” Clint doesn’t say much, but he’s had his hearing aids turned off since Tuesday night, so Bucky wasn’t expecting a rousing exclamation of relief from him. Steve’s kicked puppy expression makes Bucky feel ever so slightly sorry for him, so he steps forward and grabs his hand, squeezing their fingers together. 

“Cheer up,” he says, “Maybe when we move to Brooklyn, we can set up the Rogers and Barnes Kosher Deli -”

“You’re still doing that?” Tony says, breaking away mid-sentence from a conversation with Wanda. “Did I tell you it was a bad idea? I warned you. I’m warning you. You won’t like Williamsburg.”

Natasha hums with agreement, while Steve puffs up his ridiculous shoulders with indignation. As he says, “And I told  _ you _ ,” a pale, scrawny kid beside bowl cut kid interrupts, saying, “Uh, Mr. Stark? Sorry, but what’s wrong with Williamsburg? Everyone loves Williamsburg.”

“See,” Steve says, and nods to unknown boy who should not be dispensing sage advice at his age. “We -”

“What’s taking so long?” A cane raps against the floor behind them. When Bucky turns, and everyone turns, they part to reveal a frail old woman with fluffy white hair like a lamb and pink-and-white checkered pants - a typical customers, really - standing at the front of a short line. “Are the machines down again? Do I have go get cash? I’ve been waiting like seventy years, Ed!”

Sighing, Bowl Cut says, “Ned, Mrs. Hoffman.”

“That’s what I said, Ed,” the old woman repeats. Bucky’s mouth opens as he stares at the old biddy. He turns to Steve, whose fingers are gripping his like a vice, and whispers, “Does this woman look familiar to you?” 

Steve nods. “Maybe she’s a criminal?” he asks in a puzzled tone that sounds five-hundred percent not sure about anything in life. “Or a dentist?” 

Behind them, Sam mutters, “Cause you two have needed to have molars pulled at all this century. Some of us got to go through that pain with laughing gas.” 

Wanda sighs. “We can get out of the line. I think we should wait.” 

Shaking his head, Tony says, “I wait for no man,” as he walks towards the door. Sam follows, but Natasha stands, fingers tapping a long message on her touch screen. Bucky shoots a quick glance to the screen and sees a large, orange ball of fluffy sitting in a bread pan. The caption is “If it fits I sits.” 

“Sorry about the wait, ma’am,” he says as he moves away.

It happens in a flash. The woman’s head shoots up and her rheumy blue eyes stare at him, both hypnotized and confused. Seemingly without conscious thought, the woman steps forward, her arm swipes through the air, the cane smacks against Bucky’s stomach, and she screams, “Don’t you fucking ‘ma’am’ me, James Buchanan Barnes! You motherfucker! You know how many candles I’ve burned to wax over you?” Then, as the two boys at the counter begin yelling, frantically for the manager, she turns to Steve. “And you,” she says in an even louder voice, the cane hitting Steve at the knee, “Mr. Muscles! Are you too good to send a note? A telegram? We’ve got email now, moron! I swear, waiting for you to send a carrier pigeon is like waiting for the Messiah.” 

“What’s going on here?” As Bucky finally connects the screaming old woman with his younger sister Rebecca, the manager appears, her arm in a cast and cheeks flushed. “Mrs. Hoffman, these men giving you a - hey, aren’t you Captain America?”

Groaning, Bucky says, “Yes, this is Captain America. Becca, it’s great to see you, can we please step outside?” He indicates the door, attempting to urge her to move. She stays rooted in place like a boulder. 

“Uh,” says Ned behind the register. “Mrs. Hoffman still needs to pay for her food, Mr. Captain America’s Boyfriend.”

Natasha finally glances up from her phone. “At least he’s observant,” she says to Sam, whose back is against the glass counter, arms holding his stomach as he face steadily turns purple. Tony’s pacing by the door, muttering something, while Wanda looks two seconds away from stepping in. Clint’s just standing there, his hand near his ear. 

“Seventy-two years and you’re still together?” says Becca, who was twenty-three and married to the douchebag from the dance hall down the road. Now she’s in white-and-pink checkered pants and her hair’s gone white. “Mazel tov,” she continues as she digs, one armed, through a handbag as large as a briefcase, before marching past them. “Ed, forget my Ben’s Card. Just take the money.”

Bucky digs through his own pocket, while Steve starts fish diving his free hand through his impossible-to-penetrate jean’s pocket. “We can take care of that,” Steve says. He turns to Bucky and mouths, “Do you have any change?” Bucky shakes his head. 

Natasha moves and throws some money down on the counter. “That should cover it,” she says casually, then grabs Sam. “Come on.” 

“But we haven’t gotten any lunch,” he protests as they make their way outside, but she quietly reassures him that they’ll go to Panera instead. 

Bucky doesn’t know what the fuck kind of food Panera sells, but he hears Tony scoff. Steve stands and awkwardly holds out his arm for Becca. She scowls, and then snaps in the snootiest voice Bucky’s heard outside of Manhattan, “I can get by on my own!” Then, she hobbles her way to the door, cane and all. 

After they settle outside on the oddly mutated not-benches in shape of colorful squares, Bucky stares at the new wrinkles on his sister’s face. She looks like his  _ bubbe _ , or at least, what his bubbe might have looked like. He can’t quite remember much of her, doesn’t think he’d ever even once seen her hair. He wrings his hands, grateful for the synthetic skin Shuri applied to the arm she made. Becca’s eyes trace his face, too, and there’s an almost awed look there now, anger draining. 

“I never thought I’d see you again,” they both say simultaneously. After a beat, she clears her throat, and says, “Well, you look good for a ninety-nine-year-old, Bucky. Where’d you buy your skin product?”

With a noise that’s halfway between a laugh and a snort, Natasha says, “Yeah, their anti-wrinkle cream does wonders.” She hovers at Bucky and Steve’s shoulders, a little behind, while Sam and Tony stand off to the side, pretending to talk but glancing over frequently; Wanda and Clint don’t try to be subtle, and watch blatantly from their position by the stairs. In the overcast light, their shadows all inch towards each other, and blend with the squares’. 

“You don’t look so bad yourself, Beck,” Steve says, gentle and cautious, angled away with his arms crossed, as her eyes skip past him to Natasha. They narrow, but stay enlarged by her bifocals. 

His sister is an old woman. His sister is  _ old.  _

“Do I know you?” she says. “You look familiar.”

Shrugging, Natasha says, “I just have one of those faces. Actress-lite.” Sam coughs at the lame pun as though they aren’t as common as Clint drinking coffee straight from the coffee pot. 

Becca makes a skeptical sound. “Right.” Then, she side-eyes both Sam and Clint. “You two. You’re friends with these buffoons?” She blatantly ignores Tony, and smiles at Wanda, briefly, because everyone recognizes the Scarlet Witch. 

Sam sighs in that ever-suffering way of his. “To my eternal regret.” Though Steve pouts, Bucky ignores the bird-brain. 

“What have you been doing?” he asks. He’s missed so much of her life. He hopes the douchebag isn’t still alive and kicking. Poor Becca, if she had to deal with the dick for  _ seventy years _ . 

Becca shrugs. “A little of this. A little of that. You know, stuff.” 

Bucky rolls his eyes at the familiar non-answer tactic. “Well, what about Abby?” he asks. “Mimi? What’ve they been up to?”

Like that, his sister’s almost-smile fades. “Mimi’s,” she starts, then pauses before continuing, “Mimi’s doing all right. Moved to Paramus. Raised her kids and grandkids as  _ Jersey  _ brats. But Abby - Abby died in Jerusalem a while ago now. Cancer back in the seventies.” 

There’s another short silence where Clint and Wanda finally look away and Steve and Natasha look everywhere but Becca. Shifting his weight, Bucky tries to recall Abby’s face. He thinks about brown hair, but it’s Becca he sees. He can’t even conjure up a picture of Mimi, doesn’t remember when she was born, what food she liked. All he knows is what Steve told him. He thinks he should feel grief to hear his sister’s dead, but there’s nothing. Just hollowness. 

He clears his throat and looks away from Becca’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says and cuts off before he can add “for your loss.” 

Becca shifts, then says, “Are you busy Friday?” 

It’s Tuesday. With the nature of Avenging, they might be in Hong Kong fighting alien slugs on Friday for all he knows. He tells her no, anyway, knowing where this is leading. 

Sure enough, she tells him and Steve, “You’re coming for Shabbat. I bet you haven’t had a proper one since before you shipped out. That’s horrible. Bring challah. My hands are too old to knead.” 

Bucky’s had Shabbat at least once a month since being dragged out of Bucharest, but doesn’t have the heart to tell her this. Steve, though, in his contrariness  _ does _ , and says, “We’ve had Shabbat. I made a wonderful cholent.” 

It’s disgusting, and Bucky’s told him this. Wanda’s told him this. Sam, too, though Sam will eat military rations and enjoy them, so Bucky’s on the fence with how much his option counts. Only Natasha enjoys it. But, then again, the only thing she can make is borscht. Which tastes like dirt.  

“Great,” says Becca, because she doesn’t know that Steve still doesn’t know his way around the kitchen. Then she adds, “I’ll make the borscht.” Even though Bucky can’t see Natasha from where he’s standing, he knows she just smiled. His sister says, “Give me your number, Bucky. I need to go pick up my great niece - yes, I have one of those now - from band practice.” 

Becca stands, while Bucky hovers in case she needs help. He doesn’t move to hug her, and neither does she, but they smile at each other. Then, all of the Avengers watch with their hands shoved in their pockets as Bucky’s  _ ninety-seven-years _ old sister hobbles her way across the parking lot to a bright yellow Subaru, slides into the seat heavily, and then blatantly scrapes into the side of the car to her right as she backs out and drives the fuck away with a cheery wave. 

  
  


 

On Friday, Bucky and Steve go, alone, to Becca’s, arms laden with challah and a kugel Sam made with a recipe he found on the website with the boards and the pins. Within a few weeks, bar one incident with tentacle aliens (that weren’t  _ quite  _ giant squids) in Cape Town, Shabbat at Becca’s integrates as a regular part of their irregular schedule. 

On April 7, Becca runs her gnarled fingers around the rim of a wine glass, lips stained purple, and asks, “Do you want to come for Seder?” 

It’s late, not long before they usually leave, and Steve’s hand is already inching towards the wine glass, ready to move them to the sink before she drinks any more. “What?” he says, pausing. “ Uh.” He looks to Bucky, who quirks a brow, and says, “Sure.”

Becca smirks like she already knew the answer. “Good,” she says. “You two can buy the matzah. Charge it on Stark’s card.” 

“How many people are going to be there?” Bucky asks, more doubtful than Steve. Really, he hadn’t even realized Passover was coming up. 

“Twelve,” she says casually. “It’s a tight fit, but we fit.”

_ A tight fit  _ seems a bit dubious. Becca’s living room and dining room, which is all one space, is large for an eastern Queens property, but it isn’t huge; the L-shaped couch fills most of the space on one side, and the wooden table on the other. The Shabbat arrangement alone already occupies most of its surface, and that’s all of two candlesticks, three plates, the challah, and wine. 

Before Bucky can speak, either to accept or reject, his sister holds up her hand and says, “I know it’s a lot, considering. You can bring your friends. They’re all Jewish, right?”

Sam’s Episcopalian, whatever that means, ‘cause Bucky’s never been too adept at breaking through the layers of Christian self-categorization. He doesn’t know much about the rest. All Clint seems to worship is coffee and dogs in sweaters. So, he shrugs, but Steve answers, “Wanda is. She’ll come. Tony, too, but I think he’s going to be with Pepper. We can bring Natasha and Sam.” 

Bucky will make sure Sam eats gefilte fish. He’s planning on dragging them to his Easter dinner in Harlem because he claimed, “I do so much for you white boys so you’re going to sit and smile next to my mama and take some selfies.” 

“Which night?” Bucky asks, hoping he won’t have to ask the actual date.

“The first,” she answers, which isn’t helpful. As he glances at Steve, who glances back, she says, “Mimi’ll be glad to see to you, Bucky.”

Bucky pulls up her face from the memory of looking at her pictures in the hall of glass and ink leading to Becca’s bedroom. Brunette, too, with more curls, but dark eyes, and darker skin than his. She was in her eighties now, so it’s shock white and brittle seeming in the photos, and the eyes are hidden behind large, square glasses. “That’s great,” he says and allows a small, hesitant smile to form. He doesn’t say “I hope she’s okay with me not remembering her,” but he also doesn’t say “I can’t wait to see her.” He’s not too sure how he feels.

Becca’s eyebrow quirks. “Yeah,” she says quietly, “she’ll be real glad. Steve, want to come help me with the dishes in the kitchen?” 

“Of course,” Steve says, and finally swipes away the first wine glass. Though Bucky offers to help, they both wave him away, and retreat past the half wall to the glass-and-wood kitchen. 

As soon as he hears the water turn on, Bucky rises and heads towards the hall. He stares at an old black-and-white photo of four young kids. There’s a little boy with crooked teeth and fluffy hair holding a small baby with apple cheeks and a toothless grin. “Miriam,” he mutters, and reaches up to trace the baby’s features. It’s the metal hand, and the feel of the glass doesn’t even register. “I hope I’m what you expected, apple cheeks.” 

He stares at the photo for another minute, before another thought occurs. “Shit,” he says, and then fumbles to find his Starkphone in his pocket. Then, he pulls up Google and searches “Passover 2017.” 

“Fuck,” he whispers.  _ It’s three days away _ . 

From the kitchen, he hears Becca laugh, and Steve say, “Hey, it’s not any worse than the time you burned that honey cake for his fifteenth birthday!”

In three days, Bucky’s going to meet twelve new members of his family, who know more about him than he knows about himself.  _ He  _ doesn’t remember a disappointing honey cake experience, but he’s sure Mimi does, and maybe the rest have heard the story. “What?” he says, distracted, when Becca calls his name. “Coming.”

He hurries to the kitchen, though it turns out it is only to be handed bags of leftovers that Becca insists will only go to waste. They leave with one small request emanating from his sister’s big mouth. “Do you mind getting rid of those scary gnomes for me?”  

Inevitably, Steve answers with an enthusiastic yes, because he’s been wanting to gather these porcelain terrors to circle around Thor’s four-poster bed in the Avenger’s Tower ever since he first saw them. There’s a hug, too, a half-one that lasts about a minute, but Becca’s got some strength in those old, frail bones. 

Before leaving, they take a couple of trash bags from the landing close. “I don’t know how she hasn’t gotten someone to do this earlier,” Steve says as they pluck them out of the earth one by one. Six garden gnomes dot the edges of the cobblestone path leading from the driveway to the porch. As a kid, Bucky doesn’t remember anywhere in Queens looking like this, but then again, he never spent time anywhere as affluent as Bayside - or at least not that he recalls. 

“Maybe no one else was willing to touch them?” he says as tosses his third and final one inside with the other two. Something cracks. When he looks back at the house, Becca’s in the bay window, already in a nightgown. She waves and smiles, so he waves and smiles back. “You think Natasha’s come to the apartment?” 

They haven’t seen her in a two days. Not since they moved to Williamsburg. Bucky misses her. There’s no one to talk shit about Steve’s bad cooking with.  _ In Russian _ . Or his taste in television. If Bucky has to watch one more show with a host named Joy Behar he might shoot himself. Steve doesn’t even like most of the topics discussed! Bucky’s mind boggled as to why Steve just won’t watch  _ Game of Thrones _ with him and Natka. That show involves cuddling and popcorn. 

“She says we have to come to her,” Steve mutters. He throws the trash bag over his shoulder, arms flexing, and they begin to move in the direction of the LIRR. “I don’t know why she’s so stubborn. It’s Brooklyn, not Boston!” 

Bucky shrugs, just grateful that he convinced Steve they did not need to take the bike all the way from Brooklyn to Queens. He’d like to make it to his new apartment with the Ikea furniture they’re still building and the fifteen different bowls in one piece. He whistles as he walks, Steve’s shoulder bumping into his, and he tries not to hope that a mission interrupts the family night before he screws it all up. 

  
  


 

Yesterday morning, Natasha made a little girl with a yellow bow and a pink, powderpuff dress smile while looking for eggs in Central Park. She’s a former Red Room girl, but she’d been allowed to do something as sweet and simple as entertain a child. Bucky tries to tell himself that everything is going to turn out fine. He’s even arguing with Sam as they make their way to Becca’s house, laden with boxes of matzah and a bowl of charoset. “I just don’t get what bunnies have to do with it,” Bucky insists. Sam scowls back and adjusts the strap of the organic hemp bag he carries around. “Was Jesus carrying a fluffy rabbit and stroking it when he was doing whatever it was he did? I doubt bunnies were resurrecting people.” Bucky stops, then blinks. He reaches out and grabs Steve’s arm. “Stevie, do bunnies resurrect people now? Is that a thing? Alien bunnies?” 

The bunny thing might be new. As Steve goes to answer, Natasha steps past Bucky and says, “Only if you live in Narnia.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Man, you don’t even know. I had to sit on that bunny’s lap as a kid. A kid! It’s scarring.” 

Steve looks two seconds away from going on a righteous rant, so Bucky’s grateful when they reach the door. He deliberately knocks extra loud. A moment later, from the otherside, he hears the rush of footsteps downstairs, and then it opens, revealing a dark skinned woman wearing a colorful scarf around her hair. A few grey-streaked locks escape the confines to block the sight of her dark eyes. Those dark eyes bug out the second they land on Steve, and a small “oh” forms before the woman collects herself with a laugh and a huge smile. “Come in,” she says, holding open the door. “We’ve been waiting for you.” 

Natasha, Sam, and Wanda file in, though the kid’s dragging her feet. She’s been reluctant to come, though she seems happier the second she enters the house and smells the soup cooking in the kitchen. “Thank you, ma’am,” Bucky says, eyes trained to the floor. Gently, a hand reaches out to take the box of egg matzah from him. 

“It’s nice to meet you, James,” she says. “I’m Layla. Your sister’s daughter-in-law.” 

Bucky nods. “You too,” he tells her. There’s a lot of chattering in the background. People are in the living room, the kitchen, too, and there’s clanging pans and curses as someone drops a knife onto the floor. 

Layla adjusts the scarf, then turns to Steve. “Thanks for saving New York. Were you trying to preserve all the alleys?” 

Steve turns bright red, while Bucky barks out a laugh. “He was,” Bucky replies. “He has to keep it for posterity. I’m sure there’s signs. ‘Steve Rogers was beat up here more times than anywhere else in Brooklyn.’ There has to be.” 

Another voice answers him before Steve does. “There is. I graffiti’d three of them.” It’s an older woman, sans cane. She looks like Becca, but she’s not. For one, the white hair is longer, shoulder length, and her eyes are dark. Bucky freezes as she looks to him. 

“Hey, big brother,” she says. She, too, doesn’t move. “I have to say, for all the World War Two heroes I’ve lectured about, not one of them’s come back from the grave. Should have been there in the ‘80s. Could have used you as a guest lecturer.” 

“I don’t think I’d have been good at it,” Bucky tells her. There’s something about her voice. It’s high-pitched, but melodic. He thinks she used to sing in the shower. 

Mimi smiles. “Nonsense. You were born with the gift of gab.” Then, she turns to Steve. “Now this one couldn’t even talk his way out of a paper sack. Didn’t think to call?” 

Cheeks flushing, he says, “I didn’t know you were still alive. S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn’t exactly driving out the information train for me.” 

“There’s a thing now, Steve,” Mimi says in a snappy tone that stirs a faint bit of remembrance. “Called the internet. You could have googled. My granddaughter taught me. It’s easy. You’ve got a young brain.” 

Before Steve can open his big mouth to argue some more, Bucky steps forward. His arms are outstretched, awkwardly hanging, like he’s going for a hug that he didn’t quite realize he was going for. For a second, he remembers a small girl with tight curls who he’d pick up and swing around, and then another woman, with overalls and short, black curls rushes past them to open the door. 

There isn’t even a knock or a doorbell ringing, but sure enough, there’s someone on the stoop. She’s short, dark-skinned, with even more curls than all three women in this hallway combined, and looks tired. She’s got a book underneath one arm. Next to her is a skinny, pale faced boy that looks extremely familiar. 

“Don’t we know you?” Natasha asks as the unknown door opening woman ushers the also unknown girl in. “From Ben’s.”

The boy in the doorway, who is keeping the door  _ open _ and letting in the goddamn cold air, gapes at them like a goldfish that is belly up in the tank. “Oh my God,” he says as his elbow hits the  knob. “M.J., do you know Captain America is in your family’s living room? Captain America!” 

The girl - M.J. apparently - rolls her eyes. “No shit, Peter,” she answers. “He’s my, like, Uncle-in-Law? I’m not sure. You two married?” She doesn’t direct the question to them, though, since she’s facing Mimi. Bucky’s sister shakes her head. M.J. turns to Bucky. “So, you must be Uncle Bucky. Sorry about all the brainwashing. That sucks.” 

Steve opens his mouth, half-indignant and half-embarrassed, but Peter flails fully into the hall and the door closes with a bang. “This is so cool! You’re related to Captain America!” 

Bucky raises an eyebrow, only slightly offended. He’s a killer, but he was still a war hero. It would be nice to have some recognition once in awhile. Then, Peter looks to him. “And Bucky Barnes! I did a paper on you in sixth grade!” 

Wanda comes out from the kitchen with another woman. Bucky’s still not been introduced to the one in the hallway, who stands there still and quiet. It’s a bit freaky. “So, your nephew Jacob speaks the Sokovian dialect of Russian! Almost no one in this city does! It’s almost like home.” 

Bucky nods, and this seems to spur the unknown woman to action, right at the same time that M.J. pulls Peter away and into the living room. Presumably there are more of them in there. Bucky doesn’t even know where Sam is. Subtly, he shifts closer to Steve and reaches out to grab his hand. 

The newest woman smiles. She’s got blonde hair, and she’s paler than almost anyone he’s seen. “James, it’s lovely to meet you. I see my daughter already introduced herself. I’m Claire.” She doesn’t step forward to hug him, which he appreciates. “I’m Eli’s wife.” 

She says this like Bucky’s supposed to know who Eli is. Becca did a chart one Shabbat a few weeks ago, but Bucky’s head felt like a scrambled egg after looking at the number of births he’d missed. Steve takes over. “It’s nice to meet you. That must mean Daphne is here?” 

Daphne. Bucky thinks he remembers her name. She’s a kindergarten teacher. The woman shakes her head and explains that Daphne is still in Virginia, but that Judith, Jacob’s wife, is in the kitchen. The other unknown woman finally steps forward, her heels clicking on the floor (Bucky doesn’t understand why a woman who is wearing  _ overalls _ is also wearing heels), and offers a curt, “Lila Capello.” 

Right, Abigail’s only child. Bucky nods back, words stuck to the back of his throat. Natasha brushes up against his arm as she stands shoulder-to-shoulder with him and Steve. “Perhaps we should sit down?” Natasha suggests. 

Claire giggles a bit. “Of course,” she says with a bit of red in her cheek. “Where are my manners, how long have you been standing here?” 

They all move, passing the pictures and the umbrella stand with the weird feet, and enter into the living room. There’s an older woman, not decrepit, but not spry, with dark hair streaked with gray and crossed arms standing in front of a disassembled wheelchair. “Mama, how many times have I told you?” she asks. She’s got a bit of an accent. Scottish, Bucky thinks, and recalls that the second husband who was only a dentist was Scottish. “You can’t put too much strain on yourself!” 

Becca rolls her eyes. She looks like a potato in her spot on the l-shaped couch, with an ottoman pushed over to prop her cat slippered feet up at an appropriately elevated height, and a blanket wrapped around her like a burrito. “And how many times have I told you, Sarah, that I will sit in a wheelchair to be wheeled to the cemetery and not a second before!” 

“You are so stubborn! The Doc--” Sarah, Becca’s daughter and only living child, starts to say before another woman with black hair looks up from where she’s entertaining two young children with a burlap sack of plagues. 

“Come off it, Aunt Sarah. Bubbe knows what’s best for her.” 

“I do,” Becca says. “Don’t I, Bucky?”

The room goes nearly silent, except for the chatter of the happy children and the background noise of some cartoon movie that’s singing “let my people go.” A man with a receding hairline and sprigs of dark curls left in the back pops his head up over the couch, while another physically stands. This one is blonde, and freckled, with wire-rimmed glasses. Finally, a woman pauses from setting the table, red hair nearly brushing the edge of the soup bowl in front of her. 

Raising his hand, Bucky says, “Hello.”  

The man with the receding hairline raises a pitcher of beer. “Yo,” is all he says before he’s sidling back down the couch cushions from whence he came, disappearing from view. 

“Are you serious, Scott?” asks the woman on the floor with the children. She lifts herself up and holds out her hand. “Hi, I’m Kimmy and that’s my idiot brother Scott. We’re Becca’s grandchildren. It’s nice to see you.” 

Steve shifts, and squeezes Bucky’s hand tighter. He’s not sure if he’s grateful that Steve’s being ignored or horrified. At least with people fawning over his dorito shoulder-to-waist ratio and thousand-watt smile, no one leaves Bucky standing in a sunny field under a microscope. He nods, and then there are more introductions. The kids are Chaya and Aaron, who are the “only great-grandchildren because Ellie’s stuck at the University of California,” and the woman setting the table is Scott’s wife Shauna. There’s Sarah, the nagging daughter, and Kimmy’s husband Joshua on the couch next to his brother-in-law. 

Bucky feels overwhelmed. Sam sits next to Becca on the l-shaped couch, his fingers hovering over his touch screen like he’s attempting to occupy himself without occupying himself. There might be photos of Clint wearing bunny ears on that phone. Some of the others just wave, thankfully, but at least one of them goes in for a hug which turns into a troublesome matter since her arms aren’t long enough to fit around  _ Bucky _ , let alone Steve. Finally, Becca shoos them all away with a bright “you’re crowding him, can’t you see he’s like a shrinking violet?” and the members of the Barnes’ family retreat like a wave off the beach. Most go and crowd in front of the television set, which now sings “when you believe.” 

Not M.J. She’s got her feet propped up on another chair and a tablet pushed back and forth between her and Peter. Or, at least, it would be, if it wasn’t hovering between the two of them, held upright only by her small hands, since Peter is  _ staring at them again.  _

“That’s disconcerting,” Natasha tells the kid. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that you’ll catch flies? Stare with your eyes.” She goes and sits down next to Sam with a prim cross of her legs. “How are you, Becca?” 

Becca quirks the right side of her lip. “A bit of a dry spell, Red, but getting there. Four glasses of wine tonight! Don’t you try to stop me, Sarah. And you?” 

There’s no room in the living room for the sheer amount of people currently stuffed in it, so Sarah’s sitting on the arm of the couch. She rolls her eyes and turns to Bucky to say, “Was she always this exasperating? I’ve got to know. Was she like this as a child?” 

Bucky’s eyes go wide and he squeezes Steve’s hand so hard he thinks he might have smushed it off. Thankfully, someone else answers, “She was always the wicked child.” 

It’s Mimi. She comes in with a box of plain matzah and a bottle of wine. There’s a man behind her, with short hair that’s still black, and dark-skinned. “Hello,” he says with a smile. Wanda brushes past him to set down a large pot of soup in the center of the table. “I’m Jacob. Your nephew.” 

The woman with chestnut hair in an newscaster’s cut next to him offers a shy wave. “I’m Judith.” Then, she goes to a drawer and begins to place mismatched Haggadah’s down on each plate. Behind them, another man, Japanese and clearly Morita’s son, Harry, if Bucky remembers right, comes out of the kitchen with the seder plate. There’s the egg and the parsley, the bitter herbs and the horseradish he can’t stand, as well as the lamb shank. Already down on the table is the salt water. The plate’s more elaborate than Bucky’s childhood one, decorated in blue and silver with floral designs. Natasha rises, still holding the bowl of charoset, and goes to scoop it onto the seder plate. 

As soon as everything is situated, Harry comes and offers a salute and then an outstretched hand. “It’s an honor to meet you both. My father always spoke very highly of you.” 

In the background, one of the women asks if there’s a chair for Elijah, at the same time that Steve steps forward to shake Harry’s hand. “It was an honor to serve with him. I’m sorry he’s not here.” 

Bucky remembers beating up another prisoner that threatened to hold Morita’s arm in a pot of boiling gruel. Smoking, too, and drinking while never getting drunk, and that time he told Dugan he could go walking off a cliff if he wanted but Morita was staying. It’s not enough. It’s not like Steve, who he carries around in three leather notebooks of scribbled memories. It’s not like Natasha, where pain and suffering and shared experience drove them together and ripped them apart. Still, he shakes Harry’s hand, too, and offers the same sad, pathetic reply. 

Harry doesn’t say anything more. Everyone’s crowded around the table now, while little Chaya lets out an enthusiastic “afikomen,” even though she’s not supposed to look for it yet. Her mother helps her up into one of the chairs. 

The seder takes longer than he remembers, but goes surprisingly well. Everyone is focused on the story, the singing and the four glasses of wine (which does nothing for either him or Steve but both Mimi and Becca are swaying), dipping the parsley in the salt water, and then the matzah ball soup and charoset, salmon and chicken and, oddly enough, a bizarre egg dish with tomato sauce that only a few people eat since Lila is a vegetarian. Natasha compliments her on it. The flourless chocolate cake is gone within mere moments, and then the two children, as well as M.J. and Peter, are off through the house looking for the hidden matzah. 

Bucky’s not entirely sure where the boy finds it, but Peter comes back holding it with his face bright red. M.J. trails behind him with a large smirk on her face. 

As they leave, Sam handing out compliments like he’s handing candy out at Halloween, Bucky stands in the hall with shuffling feet and his hands placed inside his leather jacket pockets. Steve and Natasha are waiting outside, arms full of tupperware containers, leaning up against the car Tony let them borrow from his horde. 

“It was amazing,” Sam is saying  _ for the fifth time _ . “Thank you! I will tell my mama she needs to try gefilte fish.” 

Bucky rolls his eyes, then moves forward to tug on his arm. He doesn’t care what they say, it  _ still _ tastes strange. “Come on, little bird,” he says. “The clock’s ticking.” 

Mimi smiles, then gives Sam a final hug. “Come back anytime. We’ll make kugel the way Mrs. Levi used to. Her family’s from Venice.” 

Sam gives an enthusiastic grin, and then backs away to the door like a crab. His limbs flail, uncoordinated, and Bucky watches as his back hits the side of a desk, a large, black-and-white photo of Winifred Barnes teetering on the edge. Then, almost like a slow motion movie shot, the picture begins to descend. Bucky moves forward to catch it, Becca lets out a noise, but Peter, who’s coming out with M.J. talking about  _ math equations _ , moves faster than humanly possible. The edge of the frame balances like a knife point in his palm, the kid flips it like a pancake, and then he places it back. 

As Sam is profusely apologizing, Bucky stares at the picture, then looks to the kid. There’s red on his face, coloring his cheeks, and he’s studiously avoiding Bucky’s gaze.  _ What the fuck _ , Bucky thinks. 

As soon as Sam is gone, the teenagers shuffling behind him, Becca turns to Bucky. “I’ll see you next week? I better. Mimi’s not going back to Paramus for another twelve days.  _ Jersey _ , Bucky.” Next to her, Mimi rolls her eyes. 

“It’s a nice house,” his youngest sister insists. She’s had a good life. University professor, three good children. Bucky sure hopes Gabe treated her right. Mimi steps forward and reaches out, not quite hugging him. “You’re welcome anytime, big brother.” 

Bucky nods. He runs a hand through his hair, strands falling out of the ponytail he’d gathered at the back of his neck. Then, he steps forward and infolds her in his arms, careful not to squeeze too hard. “I will,” he tells her, and he places a small kiss at the top of her white, brittle hair. “I’ll drag Steve, too.”

With a laugh, Mimi says, “I don’t think you’ll have to. No, you drag that redhead. She appreciates good food.” His sister places her hand on his cheek. The feel of her wrinkled, soft skin against him makes him close his eyes. “It was great to see you, Jaime. I’ve missed you.” 

When they pull away, Becca comes in for her own hug, and Bucky pushes back tears. He clutches her close, too, not too tight, and then he pulls away and clears his throat. He tells them goodbye quickly, and then he’s out the door, waving Steve away from the driver’s seat, and making Natasha sit in the back next to Wanda, who is half-passed out from a wine and food coma.  “Control him,” he tells Natasha, pointing to Sam as he attempts to rip open the lid from a container of soup. “He’s already going to have to be rolled up the stairs.” 

Then, as soon as everyone is settled, Bucky begins the drive back to Williamsburg, the radio crooning out the slow, sad sounds of  _ Hallelujah _ . Steve doesn’t attempt to talk, just takes Bucky’s right hand, and they stay quiet for the rest of the way home. 


End file.
